The tomcat slept with my wife. He pressed his furry back against her, stretching out all four paws to kick me away, as if I were the stranger here. In the morning, his eyes glinted with smug mischief, taunting me with a silent snigger only cats can master. I would grumble and mutter, but I never managed to change a thing. He was the favourite, you see. Darling and sunshine, that’s what she called him. My wife would laugh, but I couldn’t find it amusing in the least.
For this little sweetheart, a plump bit of haddock would sizzle in the pan, lovingly deboned after, and the golden, crisp skin would be placed in a neat pile beside the steaming, succulent fillets on his special blue plate. The cat would gaze at me, curling his lip just so, saying without words: “You’re the loser; the true prince of this home is me.”
Whatever scraps were left from his feast landed on my plate. In short, he tormented me however he could, and I returned the favour as best as one weak mortal can: quietly nudging him away from the fish, shooing him off the settee when I thought no one saw. It was open war.
Sometimes, delayed-action mines appeared in my slippers and broguesthe kind you only discover once your toes are warm and happy. My wife would giggle and say, Serves you right for bad-mouthing him, petting her precious golden boy. The tabby regarded me with the withering grace of a retired judge. I would sigha man can do nothing; one wife in this world, and so nothing more needs to be discussed. You simply bear it.
But this morning This morning, as I was tying my tie, I heard my wife holler, the kind of desperate shriek that pulls you from dream to panic in a blink. Rushing out to the hallway, what I found was something between a circus and a barroom brawl. Six kilos of bristling fur, teeth, and appalling mood were charging my wife, bellowing and wild-eyed as a Shropshire bull baited with a red scarf.
When the brute saw me, he leapt, sledgehammered my chest, and bowled me out the hallway onto the carpet. Scrambling up, I grabbed a dining chair, wielding it before me like a lion tamer, yanked my wifes hand and dragged her towards the bedroom. The cat, mid-pounce, cracked his front paw against the chair leg and waileda sound so pained it stilled the air.
It didnt deter him for long. He continued his storm through the corridor until the door finally shut him out. We stood inside, hearts throbbing, listening to the furious, hissing expletives aimed at the door. Then out came the plasters and antisepticdabbed at our plentiful scratches under the steady tick of the grandfather clock. On the side of the bed, my wife phoned her office, calmly explaining, Our cat has gone quite madclawed us both, so well have to visit A&E. I picked up next and repeated her every word to my own boss.
And then
The ground gave a sudden jolt. With a deep sigh, the house swayed; in the kitchen, the windows splintered with a shattering howl. The bathroom mirror cracked straight through. My mobile slid from my hand. Silence flooded our world.
We forgot the cat. Flinging open the bedroom door, we dashed into the kitchen and peered outside. A monstrous crater yawned before the flatsa wound in the street. Bits of cars lay scattered like toy blocks. It must have been Mr. Parsons little old vanpowered by gas, always loaded with odd jobs and a dozen canisters. Clearly, something had gone wrong; a proper explosion. Vehicles nearby lay belly-up, wheels spinning lazily, like stranded tortoises. Far off, the howl of ambulances and constables rattled the stillness.
Stunned, we turned almost in unison to the cat.
He sat in a corner, nursing a broken right foreleg to his chest, eyes wide and wet. Wailing softly.
My wife cried out, swooping him up, clutching him to her jumper. I dived for the car keys, and the three of us flew down the stairwell, bounding the full seven floors in feverish silence. May the injured neighbours forgive me, but we had our own soldier to save.
Luckily, our little Ford was tucked behind the building, unscathed. Without a word, I swung onto the high street, headed straight for old Mr. Sutton, the vet in town. My guilty heart achedthe BBC Radio 3 was playing Michael Nymans The Heart Asks Pleasure First, teasing my nerves with its melancholy.
An hour later, my wife emerged from the surgery hugging her treasure; he in turn, sat on her lap, holding up his bandaged paw with dramatic pride to all the other waiting pet owners. Once they’d heard the tale, every last person queued up for a patour scruffy, tiny hero in the limelight at last.
At home, my wife prepared his favourite treatfried cod, done just so, bones plucked, skin crisp, arranged in the familiar little mountain on his plate. As usual, my portion was the unimpressive remainder.
Limping pitiably on three legs, the cat hobbled to his bowl. For once, instead of disdain, his face was riven by pain. But pride dies hard. He tried for a curl of the lip, but only managed a wince.
I was busy, rushing about, but when I was finished, I paused. Lifting my own share of fishcarefully debonedI placed it with his on the plate.
The cat blinked, dumbfounded. Tugging his injured leg to his chest, he let out a questioning mew.
I picked him up and whispered, Maybe I am a poor fool, but if I’ve got a wife and cat like you, then Im the happiest fool in all England. I kissed his furry nose.
He purred, pressing his head slow and strong against my cheek. I set him down, and wincing, he began to eat his supperwhile my wife and I, arms around each other, watched him, grinning like schoolchildren.
Since that morning, the cat shares my bed. He watches my face as darkness drifts down, and every night, I pray to God for just one thing:
To have as many years as possible, with him and my wife beside me.
Nothing else matters.
Truly.
That is the only real happiness there is.
